Barely Alive
by bluemagik
Summary: Most don't even know he exsists. They make monster movies about vampires and write books about them, but they're not supposed to be real. But Spike has his own perspective about day-walkers, and the truth the night holds. Character sketch, angsty but t
1. Default Chapter

Barely Alive  
  
Author's note: This is a slightly different type of fan fic for me-I've never done a character sketch before, and this just kinda came to me a few days ago. Please let me know what you think, and if you could, check out my Buffy chapter fic "Freedom Fighter". Thanks.  
  
Disclaimer: Not my characters, no money made, but my idea. You steal, I kill. Enough said.  
  
His black duster swirled around him in the wind, barely seen in the dark night. His step was silent, perfected from night after night of midnight walks, his stealth maneuvers during the witching hours. At first, he felt like an intruder, breaking the still of the night as he followed in his soul's shadow down the empty streets. But why feel like an intruder in a world he knew so well, and was such a huge part of? The fear was always there, ticking away in the back of his mind, that the people in the houses along the street, with their empty, gaping windows and bolted doors, would rush out upon sensing his presence and badger him, staring with uncaring eyes and asking why he walked the lonely moonlit streets. And to this he would have no answer. They wouldn't understand that the night was part of him, that he couldn't stand day's piercing rays of sunlight, revealing people who believed they had everything under control, who thought they knew what they were doing and why. But they had no clue. That was why they hid from the night. "People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within." He had read this at one time, and was shocked that someone actually saw this. They saw that human nature was truly a world of created happiness and hidden angst and sadness.  
  
During the day, anyone can put on a fake smile, laugh, and act as if their world was perfect, but they're actually falling apart inside. The lack of control that plagued them during the day could easily be hidden, but if they were step outside their safe houses for just a few minutes, they would discover that the night is one with their secret feelings, their untriggered anger, scorn, and sometimes cavalier attitude toward the world around them. The night was a tease. It taunted them, demanding all those who repressed their problems, their feelings, to release them underneath a starry sky. The night would not tell what they had confessed to the darkness. But that was what scared people. The night, not themselves, would be in total control of them, and if people lost control of themselves, the one thing they had almost absolute dictatorship over, they would be lost. Wandering souls with no purpose. Just like he was.  
  
The dim light from a nearby lamppost flickered and he looked up, faltering in his step. The light made his eyes appear hollow, yet as cold as steel. But if his eyes were cold steel, than his soul was solid titanium. Unbreakable, unbendable to most things, but it had to be to start his day at twilight and end it dawn broke. He would be dead if it wasn't. He was one of the few that dared to venture out in the moonlight; to wander the streets illuminated by dim lampposts. Each step was pointless, his walk aimless, his being of absolutely no importance to others around him. But he knew this. He knew this as much as he knew when his cigarette burned out each night, so would his love for the dark, for the evil that shone in the moonlight, and for the lampposts scattered along the street, barely noticeable, barely alive. But at least he knew for a fact that the point of his existence was to walk in the cool evening air, to be a part of the darkness that surrounded his entire being. At least he had accepted what he was.  
  
  
  
(Quote from Elizabeth Kubler-Ross) 


	2. Chapter 2

Barely Alive  
  
  
  
Author's Note: This is the second part of Barely Alive. This will probably be the last part. It's just a character sketch/insight into how I see Spike. I plan on doing other character sketches, the next one probably being Angel. Vampires are so much fun to write, lol.  
  
Disclaimer: Not my characters, no money made, but it is my idea. You steal, I kill. Enough said.  
  
  
  
He had decided not to go out tonight. The graveyards had been quiet the past few days, and killing demons was the only thing to entertain him during the night. He loved the battle, the anticipation of the kill, because he was sure he'd win. He was never overconfident; he had learned after more than a hundred years existence that having too much confidence and a big ego got you killed. He'd seen it before. He'd been there before, but he'd come out alive. The demon hadn't.  
  
He smiled slightly at the memories that played out before him, the blaring TV completely blocked out. He had been young, still under Angelus' foot, doing whatever he was told....Angelus' little servant. Great poof, Peaches never suspected that he, Spike, William the Bloody awful poet, whatever the hell you wanted to call him, would grow to be as powerful as he did, powerful enough to leave him and Darla and go out on his own with Dru. He and Drusilla made a grand time of traveling the world. And when he found out Angelus had become Angel, his soul restored by gypsies, Spike made sure "Angel" knew what a bloody wimp he had become. But that was another story.  
  
But there was one night when he was still with Angelus... feeling used and with the blood of a fresh kill, a traveler, blazing a hot path through his veins, he had trekked to a graveyard outside of the town Angelus had he, Darla and Drusilla holed up in. Some dank, dirty little Scottish town with too many drunks and little young, fresh blood. Taking the blood of a drunkard got you high, but it left one bloody hell of a hangover. The first time he drank from a drunken man made him sick, and he didn't feed for three days. Mainly because he had been curled up on the bed, doubled over because the alcohol in the blood had been a brand that didn't agree with him. Nasty stuff. But that particular night, upon going to the graveyard turned out to be not such a good idea. A Zan demon, a particularly strong and nasty bloke, was hunting through a crypt when he had disturbed its search, making one very pissed off demon. Stupid thing just couldn't let him by, just had a pick a bloody fight. He had not been in the mood to tangle with the demon, so he tried to get by, but received a backhand that sent him into a nearby tombstone. They danced for probably ten minutes, snarling and growling, jabbing, punching, slashing and kicking, armed with only teeth and muscle. But when the Zan demon slashed his eyebrow, causing a ferocious stream of blood to pour from the wound, he lunged at the thing with every bit of strength and snapped his neck. The wound left a scar, and he remembered how much Drusilla had fussed over it. She hated the fact that her perfect little bad ass vampire had a physical flaw. She would run about, crying and chanting crazy little phrases and saying her Spike had been damaged, that Miss Edith could fix it. Bless her, but she was so artificial, materialistic, and just damn insane. He didn't know how he put up with it. Wait, he had loved her. But that was when he was evil.  
  
He had at first damned that chip in his head, but when he discovered that the Slayer was willing, though grudgingly, to let him in on the Good side, everything was so different. He remembered coming home the first night he had gone out to help the Slayer patrol and feeling completely different. He had seen how EVIL his kind was. He still didn't know what it was that had changed his mind, had made him see the other side. Maybe it had been watching the Slayer fighting with such intensity, not just because every demon was a threat, but because she felt the fight-she had a passion for protecting the mortal world, as despicable as it might be, and he admired that kind of commitment, courage and strength. He had once felt the same way about killing humans. Though he still felt most where useless, he had gotten used to, even liked those that surrounded the Slayer. Especially Giles...they had a bond because they were British. It was a loyalty thing, he figured, because there wasn't much else linking them. The whole dead thing did get in the way. The witch wasn't half bad either. She HAD stopped him from staking himself after he found out he couldn't kill people. And then there was Anyanka, and he felt he could relate with her because she had been a demon. So they understood each other on that level. She was pretty hilarious to watch, because she still wasn't accustomed to the mortal world yet. But then again, neither was he.  
  
Then came the Slayer-she was so completely different from any mortal he'd ever met. And it wasn't just because she was the Slayer, the girl he had once hated with every drop of blood in him. She still wasn't his favorite person, but he was used to her now. He mentally slapped himself for thinking so, but Buffy was interesting. She'd gone through so much in her life, and she was still so young. Most of his demon life had been taken up by feeding, killing, pillaging, and being with Drusilla, and having someone so full of life like the Slayer around was a change. Maybe not a NICE one, perhaps, but different. Everything was so different, though.  
  
And then he realized it-he was being rehabilitated. He constantly found himself more and more around humans. Was that what the Initiative had ultimately planned? He hoped they hadn't bloody well dedicated their entire organization into putting demons back into the world. But here he was, slowly becoming less demon and acting more human. Sure, he still drank blood and was dead, but he no longer felt the need to hide from humans because the temptation wasn't there to rip all their throats out. He wasn't demon, and he wasn't human. So what was he?  
  
He got up slowly and flicked the TV off, the question still burning in his mind. So what if the cemeteries weren't full of baddies? He felt the need to kill a few demons before sunrise. Maybe he'd pay Rupert a visit. He suddenly felt the need for human company, even if Rupert still wasn't fond of him. But then again, he couldn't blame the guy. Maybe if he ever figured out exactly who or what he was, then he could understand why the hell....nah, he didn't need to know. Humans were hard enough to figure out now, so why would he want his own soul? To see how close to a mortal he could get? Humans couldn't even figure themselves out.  
  
The world's a funny thing. And he was just its jester. But it was better than being dust floating on the night wind.  
  
He shrugged his duster on and lit a cigarette as he walked out the door, a blast of midnight air caressing his cool skin. His keen eyes sighted a new vamp rising out of a nearby grave. How he did love the kill. 


End file.
